Sin and Sacrifice
by enRAGEd
Summary: Witness the final moments of the Arklay incident through the eyes of the man that caused it all, Albert Wesker. With his dark designs finally approaching fruition, sins must be committed, and sacrifices must be made, to ensure his Godhood. End-RE1.


**Resident Evil: Sin and Sacrifice**

The elevator descended into the cold and sterility of the lowest level, sinking beneath the stench of decay that permeated every inch of the now-defunct Arklay installation. As the journey reached its end, he slid aside the cage's door, closing it behind him as he strode into the vapour of the corridor beyond. It parted around him, billowing in his wake, as he progressed deeper, his pace hastened by confidence and urgency. His customised Beretta, chosen workhorse of the S.T.A.R.S unit he commanded, remained in its thigh holster, unnecessary in the relative safety of the innermost sanctum. In his hand, he carried a compact duralumin briefcase, acquired from the medical facility above.

The evening had been building to this ultimate crescendo, the moment when his ambitions would at last be realised.

As the entrance to the laboratory drew open with a hiss of hydraulics, he met the wave of nostalgia with indifference. Beneath his composed exterior, anticipation and apprehension simmered in equal measure, but not for the recollections of his past; rather, he dwelt only on the nearing threshold of his future.

Beyond the door, server banks hummed quietly, lights flickering and blinking rhythmically as they continued to monitor the chamber's inhabitants, even after almost three months of neglect. Within their glass tanks, the specimens drifted in solutions of chemical specifically designed to keep them vital until they were needed. Each of them was a fundamental chapter in the tale that was the growth of the Tyrant super soldier, rejected organs and failed muscle strands whose imperfections had been exhaustively analysed.

Together with the finalised archetype, they composed the pinnacle of T-virus research, the final stage in the Umbrella Corporation's search for a perfect Bio-Organic Weapon. The data contained within that single room would permit his employers to manufacture their coveted ultimate creation by the dozen within the space of mere months. Prior to his demise, the Chief Researcher of Arklay, John Fae, had made the decision not to transmit the project's results to Umbrella's database, in defiance of the company's operational directives. Due to his familiarity with the facility, he had been selected to retrieve those results and eliminate the supervisor should he still be alive.

That they had considered him for the task suggested faith in both his abilities and his loyalty; regrettably, in regard to the latter, that faith would prove to be misplaced.

He moved quickly, prioritising his objectives so that he could accomplish them within the time he had allotted himself for their execution. At the very furthest reaches of the expansive laboratory stood the stasis tube that housed the prototype, sheathed in a retractable case of bullet-resistant metal, designed to both protect and confine it. Beside it was the terminal through which all data relating to its creation and development could be accessed.

Putting aside the case for the moment, he typed his login credentials at the workstation, the motions familiar to his fingertips. His orders were to transmit the full complement of data directly to the organisation's electronic archives; however, he was aware that opportunities for self-advancement should be seized whenever they presented themselves. As such, he commanded the mainframe to transfer all information relating to the Tyrant project directly to a private server, one catering to his own interests. It would take a matter of several minutes for the task to reach its completion, a timer counting the seconds filling the screen as he moved away.

This chamber would be destroyed when the facility's failsafe was triggered, rendering the duplicate of its contents, now solely his possession, unique.

His attention turned to other concerns. Retrieving the case, he carried it to a worktable at the room's opposite extremity, where he set it down and unhooked the clasps sealing its lid. Set within a padded recess was a chrome injector, shaped almost like the sidearm that was strapped to his upper leg. It was one of a number of similar devices that had been stored throughout the laboratory, a common tool for Umbrella's covert installations and ordinarily unnecessary for him.

From an equipment pouch on his belt, he removed a slender, metallic canister, the size and shape of a cigar tube. Minute writing stencilled upon its surface framed a red biohazard emblem, and two thin stripes of yellow and black, indicating its potentially harmful nature, ran the cylinder's circumference. He pressed the release switch at each end of the container and watched through hidden eyes as it unfolded, revealing its contents with a whirr of miniscule mechanisms.

Inside was a glass vial of opaque fluid, almost like liquid silver. His colleague, William Birkin, had named it 'Paragon'.

He removed the capsule from its setting, attaching it to the breach of the injector. Setting it aside for the moment, he removed a tourniquet from the case and secured it around his left arm, inducing rigidity in the veins there. With his preparations complete, he lifted the hypodermic device and pressed its conical barrel into the crook of his elbow.

His hesitation lasted for a mere instant, a momentary flicker of emotional rebellion swiftly overruled by logic. Though the sacrifice he would make was of no small consequence, these events had been set in motion many months ago; there could be no weakness in his resolve. Thus, with the same businesslike air that had been present when he had accessed the terminal moments before, he triggered the syringe.

Features tightening with the sharp pain, he watched as the vial's contents seeped into his body, infusing his bloodstream with Birkin's prototype mutagen. There was no immediate alteration that he could detect, though he had not expected its symptoms to be instantaneous. He did not wait for its success or failure to become apparent, however. Instead, he set aside the spent injector, unbuckled the strap around his arm, and turned his focus back to the workstation he had previously abandoned.

A selection of surveillance images from the lower level were displayed on a row of monitors above the terminal where he had made the transfer of the laboratory's data. The screen that corresponded to the elevator he had used to descend now showed a gathering of three people, each of them clad in dirtied uniforms and shredded tactical vests. Each of them wore the emblem of S.T.A.R.S, the very same symbol emblazoned upon his own shoulder.

The final act of the charade that had begun almost three months previously, with his assignment to Raccoon City, was about to commence.

He watched as they traversed the passage, following his footsteps through the mist-choked corridor, until at last they reached the entrance to the laboratory. No sooner had they approached than he heard the high-pitched breath of the automated door behind him. They marched, single-file, through the unwelcoming chill of the Tyrant's chamber.

Redfield served as their leader, as he had expected, while Burton composed the rearguard; they both proceeded with confidence, despite their dishevelment. Between them was Rebecca Chambers, the Bravo Team medic and rookie, her shoulders slouched through fear and timidity. Though she kept her head raised, it was as much to convince herself of her courage as others. They composed the sole remaining members of the thirteen-strong unit he had been charged with commanding, with the exception of Detective Valentine.

Necessity had ruled that he eliminate her from the proceedings and confine her in one of the holding pens located on the upper level. He had intended to utilise her in collecting combat data from the completed Tyrant model, had she been the only survivor. Umbrella had condemned it to be destroyed with the installation having never experienced the optimal conditions needed for it to demonstrate its true potential. He considered their decision to be short-sighted; before mass-production could begin, a full report would need to be produced, detailing its capabilities. His future employers would no doubt be immensely interested to see such a report.

Fortunately for Detective Valentine, other suitable candidates had presented themselves. As such, she would be granted the mercy of a swift demise in the facility's eventual demolition.

As his subordinates, the last of the men and women who had been rendered little more than pawns by his machinations, neared, he turned on his heel, snapping his Beretta from its holster. The barrel of his sidearm fixed upon the forehead of the closest, the dark-haired male recoiling, an expression of surprise and alarm appearing on his features. He watched as the other man registered the weapon, then the passive, untroubled mask of his own face, combat-honed instincts, weakened by fatigue, labouring as they pursued understanding. And then, a flicker of comprehension lit his eyes.

"No..." he uttered flatly, his body deflating almost visibly as the single word carried the breath from him, before his expression hardened, intense, azure orbs narrowing, teeth clenching into a snarl, "_you _did this! You set us up!"

"An excellent deduction, Chris," Wesker congratulated, permitting his accent to resume normality after the faux-American enunciation he had adopted while covertly acting in Umbrella's stead, "your performance this evening has been nothing short of remarkable, though I would expect as much from any individual I had personally selected."

"You _son of a bitch_!" the dark-haired male snapped, clearly finding difficulty in restraining himself, and only doing so with the knowledge that he would be dead with the merest hint of unchecked aggression, "you drew us in, acted like you were one of us, and all this time you've been one of _them_. Since when, Wesker? Since when did you sell out?"

"You misunderstand. My loyalties have always been to Umbrella. They assigned me to S.T.A.R.S to ensure that you were not successful in locating this laboratory and, in the event that such an outcome was unavoidable, eliminate you."

"So why not just put a bullet in all our heads the moment we landed in that forest? Too much of a bitch to do your own dirty work? Or maybe you needed us to protect you."

"This incident provided a unique opportunity to assess the effectiveness of the Bio-Organic Weapons developed by the corporation. As such, it was necessary to ensure your survival until this data could be collected. I am sure they will find the results of this evening's exercises to be most edifying."

"So long as they can afford it, right?" Chris asked angrily, earning himself a momentary quirk of the blond's left eyebrow, "you honestly expect me to believe that a goddamn _traitor _like you wouldn't sell his own mother for a quick buck? You'll screw them just like you screwed us."

"Though you misconstrue my motives, I feel I must congratulate you on your insight; you have shown intuition truly worthy of your station," he said, allowing himself the pleasure of a subtle smirk to mark the contempt he felt for the other man, "however, there is one matter that you have yet to reckon with: my accomplice in these proceedings. Barry."

At his command, the oldest member of the small group moved his aim to encompass the two standing before him. The female turned to face him and immediately recoiled with a horrified yelp, colliding gracelessly with the first man's back. For his part, though his eyes did not leave Wesker's, a pinch of anxiety appeared in his brow, the stress of the night's events at last beginning to take their emotional toll. In that instant, he was certain that his adversary had not suspected his partner of any wrongdoing for even a moment. He felt a certain satisfaction at the success of that deception, undiminished by the knowledge that Detective Valentine had correctly surmised Barry's collaboration some time previously.

"Barry?" Chris growled through clenched teeth, sweat visibly beading upon his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Chris," the other man said, his voice cracking with emotion, "he's got Sarah; Moira and Polly too."

"Dragging innocent civilians into this, Wesker? I didn't think you could sink much lower. Guess I was wrong about you again."

"Kindly relieve your associates of their weapons, Mister Burton," he instructed, watching as his unwilling pawn moved to carry out his orders, "and then withdraw to the upper level to await my arrival."

"What about Jill?" he asked in return, as he gently tugged Officer Chambers' Beretta from her unresisting hand and tucked it into his tactical vest.

Even as Chris surrendered the shotgun that was in his possession, the Captain was able to discern a genuine glimmer of alarm in his otherwise enraged expression. This much was not particularly unanticipated; that he and the woman in question were lovers was not a matter of any doubt. Ordinarily, official guidelines would have precluded them from working together while engaging in such a relationship, particularly while conducting a sensitive operation, as this one undoubtedly was. He could only presume that their association was a more secretive affair in the precinct that they originally hailed from.

However, they had made no great attempt to conceal it during their two months in Raccoon City, evidently imagining that the urgency of the case they had been assigned to would eclipse the matter. Their assumptions had been largely correct; the majority of the S.T.A.R.S members, as well as the Chief of Police, had known of their intimacy and elected to turn a blind eye. Though Wesker himself frowned upon such breaches of code, even within an organisation he did not truly belong to, he maintained a façade of indifference to better ensure the unit's harmony.

Admittedly, the extent to which their familiarity would either facilitate or hinder their survival had been a matter of some speculation for him in the days that preceded the mission at hand. Their interaction had been relatively minor from the evening's beginning, however, nullifying that consideration.

"Do not concern yourself with Detective Valentine," he responded, as Chris relinquished the final piece of equipment he had appropriated from the mansion above, a stainless steel revolver.

"You really think you can trust _him_?" the younger man asked his ally, almost spitting the last word, his hostile eyes never leaving those of his commanding officer.

"I have to protect my family," Barry said, fatigue evident in his voice.

"If you follow this guy's orders then you'll never see your family again. Either you'll be dead, or they will."

"I ... can't take that chance," he responded dully, meeting his colleague's gaze for the briefest of moments as he turned to look at him, before turning his own head away in shame, "I'm sorry."

Without another word, he walked out of the room, affixing the shotgun to his back as the door hummed open to permit his exit. He kept his head bowed with the disgrace of his actions, his feet dragging against the concrete, consumed by the knowledge that he would live at the expense of his comrades. Though Wesker was not one who readily appreciated the appeal of sentimental attachments, he understood the other man's willingness to expend any and all resources to achieve his primary goal. In this instance, it was the safety of his wife and daughters that most concerned him, but that did not mean that it was any less comparable with the blond's own method of operating.

Guilt, however, was an emotion that he empathised with less clearly.

"What are you going to do with Jill?" Chris asked him, the tone of his voice taut with anger and accusation.

"Initially, it was my intention to utilise her in the final phase of this operation, to gather combat data from the corporation's ultimate creation," he explained, "however, with your comparatively greater martial experience, I believe that you would make a more suitable candidate."

"'Ultimate creation'? You got another one of your test tube freaks lined up?"

Without allowing his awareness or his aim to waver for even the briefest of moments, the blond stepped backwards, laying his free hand upon the control panel behind him. Questing fingers brushed across the keys, locating the correct lever in a matter of seconds, the result of his familiarity with the console's functions. Remaining silent, he snapped the switch from its resting position, the machine to his right activating with a loud hum; slowly, the shield concealing the Tyrant's cryogenic prison began to retract upwards. Azure luminescence shone through the organic fluid filling its tank, casting undulating waves of shadow and light onto the floor in a glowing rectangle that widened as the buffer rose. Its humanoid shadow, vast and malformed, was projected upon the floor.

The two remaining S.T.A.R.S members watched with horror as the creature was revealed to them. Officer Chambers shrank behind her colleague and placed a trembling hand upon his shoulder, while her protector simply gaped, face still twisted with anger. Wesker did not turn to confront the monster himself, already well aware of its appearance.

The pallor of its skin was an unnatural grey, the texture of stone that had been withered and cracked by heat. Blisters and tumours sprouted in abundance from its flesh, growing into a mound of corrupted tissue around the immense artificial heart that had been grafted to its chest, swollen with herniated muscle. Its left arm had lost its shape, transforming into a distended claw of elongated bone, its talons reaching down to below its knee. Bulging veins pulsed, spreading like roots beneath its hide, out from the throbbing organ affixed to its right pectoral. The scar tissue covering its face pulled its epidermis taut around its mouth, transforming its expression into a skeletal grin. It stood at nine feet tall with a muscle mass that no human could replicate, nude and sexless, its eyes closed upon a dreamless slumber.

"The pinnacle of T-virus research; Tyrant."

"I-i-it's an abomination," the young woman stammered, her eyes wide with disbelief and terror as they gazed upon the corporation's supreme being, "was it ... human?"

"At one time, perhaps, though no longer. It was a unique specimen, one of a minute number of human beings capable of producing the desired results from the infection process. With the data from this experiment, however, this success can be reproduced in greater numbers, effectively generating an entire legion of T-units."

"I'm not going to let that happen!" Chris snapped, unable to tear his eyes away from the sleeping monstrosity a mere half-dozen feet away.

"I assure you that you have no choice in the matter," Wesker responded flatly, depressing the button beside the lever he had released with his thumb. The peel of a klaxon rang out through the room and, with a muted sucking noise, the liquid filling the upright tube began to drain through vents at its bottom.

"If you're g-going to do this..." Rebecca began, fighting fruitlessly to restrain the sobs that rose in her throat and the tears that began to flow freely down her cheeks, "...then at least keep your word and let Barry go back to his family. He doesn't deserve to die here and his children don't deserve to grow up without a father."

"That was never his plan, Becca. Even if this bastard wanted to, which he doesn't, the company wouldn't let him live. Too much chance that his conscience will get the better of him; it'd be bad for business if he spilled his guts about this to the press."

"Your estimations are correct, Chris; my orders were to eliminate S.T.A.R.S in its entirety. Though I assured him of his family's continued safety to gain his complicity, his fate has already been determined and he will not live to see our accord fulfilled."

"You _can't_!" she exclaimed, stepping forward in spite of her fear, before shrinking back as he swung his arm instinctively to bring his Beretta to bear against her.

In that moment, his dark-haired subordinate leapt forward, wrapping a hand tightly around his wrist and twisting his aim away, before swinging out with a stiff backhand that caught him full in the face. His sunglasses spun away from his features, clattering across the floor and skidding to a stop at the foot of the Tyrant's tank. Wesker winced in the glare, the photosensitivity that had afflicted him since childbirth turning the light into sunbursts in his eyes, making his head begin to throb.

Clenching his teeth in an effort to shut out the pain, he retaliated with an offhand punch to the other man's jaw, struggling to twist the captured appendage in his grip and press the handgun to his gut. The younger male snatched a fistful of the blond's jacket, pulling him forward in an attempt to force the weapon against his stomach instead. The barrel of the sidearm described meandering lines through the air as they fought for control.

Wesker's free hand darted forwards, jabbing at the cartilage at the base of Chris's throat, prompting him to snap his own hand away from his grasp on the tactical vest and desperately block the attack. Using the distraction to his advantage, he slammed his boot down on the other man's instep, before wrenching his arm around and pushing the gun into his abdomen.

In the instant that it took him to pull the trigger, his subordinate jerked hard on his wrist, the bullet slicing a smouldering hole in the fabric of his clothing as it exploded past him.

The slug impacted with a dull thud in Rebecca Chambers' torso, sending her toppling backwards with a startled yelp, before the back of her head struck the concrete. Even as she fell limp upon the floor, her colleague reflexively shot a horrified look at her prone from, calling out her name with a mixture of dismay and stunned surprise evident in his voice.

As his attention spun back to face his adversary, he was met with a palm strike that snapped his head up with whiplash-inducing speed. He staggered backwards, disoriented, as Wesker turned smartly on his left heel and drove the flat of his right boot stiffly into his solar plexus. The move not only drove the air out of his lungs, but also sent him reeling to the perfect distance for his superior to execute a smooth roundhouse kick that connected with his jaw and knocked him off his feet.

"A pity," the blond mused, as he came to stand over his fallen rival, aiming the Beretta into his face, "Umbrella had hoped that this incident could be used as a proving ground for Miss Chambers, so that she might be inducted into their research personnel. It had been my intention to secure her services for whichever organisation provided me with the most compelling offer of employment. Instead, it would appear that her potential has been senselessly squandered. I cannot help but wonder how she would have reacted to such a proposal, however."

"She'd have told you to shove it, you son of a bitch!" Chris bellowed, starting up rebelliously and snatching for the weapon that was centred on his forehead, before his commanding officer casually forced him down, pressing his right foot into his chest.

"I am certain it would surprise you to learn how readily some will abandon the principles that inform their morality to ensure their own survival," he responded, grinding his heel into the joint between the struggling man's torso and arm, "you, however, seem to possess no such instinct for self-preservation. Perhaps it would be more frugal simply to eliminate you and have Detective Valentine serve as the Tyrant's opponent in your stead."

"Hold it right there, Wesker!"

His eyes snapped up, acknowledging the open door at the entrance to the laboratory and the broad form of Barry Burton standing framed in it, his .44 Colt Python levelled in his direction. Before he could react, the high-calibre revolver barked loudly and something tore into his left arm, the impact throwing him backwards. The world spun and then his back collided with the metal frontage of a server bank, his legs buckling beneath him and sending him slumping to the ground.

Pain, unlike any he had experienced in the past, burst into bloom in his shoulder; he realised with an almost detached sense of self-awareness that the fingers of his left hand were paralysed. Lifting his now-empty right hand, he reached over to probe the injury and examine its severity, only to find that the powerful round had shredded a mass of flesh and muscle from his bicep. Blood was already soaking what remained of the sleeve of his uniform, the S.T.A.R.S emblem that had been emblazoned there now torn away by the bullet.

"Barry," Chris greeted, taking the older man's hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, before clasping it in a firm, comradely grip, "thanks. But ... what about your family?"

"You _are_ my family, Chris," his colleague responded, face still drawn with fatigue and shame, but now resolute where before it had only been dejected, "and I knew that Sarah would never forgive me if she saw what a coward I'd turned into."

"You did what you thought was right."

"Yeah... In the end, I did."

Wesker listened dispassionately to their dialogue as he gathered himself. Though he was in considerable agony and his wounded arm now hung slack from its severed tendons, the pain alone was not sufficient to render him paralysed with trauma. He detected the interference of Birkin's prototype virus in that, moderating the severity of the injury to prevent him from falling unconscious. Providing, of course, that the other man's calculations had been correct, the wound would eventually regenerate completely, leaving neither scar nor blemish upon his skin. Indeed, even if he were to perish from blood loss in the following minutes, that demise would be a temporary one.

Prior to this mission, he had prepared for every possible contingency, including the eventuality of his own death.

Were he to die now, however, his former subordinates would be granted leave to make their escape while the virus restored his bodily functions. His mission directives would need to take precedence; the elimination of S.T.A.R.S and the destruction of the Arklay installation could be his only priority. Even the personal gratification he would have derived from collecting the active combat data of the Tyrant would need to be dispensed with. In reality, the creature itself was now a potential liability that needed to be neutralised, lest it roam unchecked and escape the laboratory during his rejuvenation.

Pressing his back to the cabinet that he had collapsed against, he pressed the soles of his boots to the ground and began to force his weight slowly upwards, using its bulk to support himself. Clenching his teeth against the anguish, his breathing shallow and laboured, he rose, tattered shoulder painting a crimson streak across the surface behind him. Noticing his Beretta lying mere inches from his right thigh, he took the grip in the fingers of his remaining hand.

The pain hitched in his ruptured bicep and, in a moment of reflexive aggravation, he slammed the butt of the pistol into the server bank's metal casing, punching a dent in its surface. Chris looked up from his position beside the prone Rebecca, and Barry, standing over him, recoiled in surprise, shock overriding the concern that had previously dominated his expression. Their eyes locked with his as he lifted his weapon, drawing a bead on the older man's forehead.

Yelling warnings to one another, the two leapt quickly behind the banks of specimen tubes as he opened fire. His bullets struck glass, lodging there and sending lines of fracturing spreading out across the tanks; some began to leak foul-smelling fluid from their more serious faults. Pushing off from the computer hub, he stalked after them, weapon raised, the paralysed digits of his left arm drooling gore from their fingertips in his wake.

"As I have said before, your fates have already been determined," he informed them bluntly, features pinched with agony and irritation at his jaw and brow as he watched them adjust their positions to make use of the available cover.

"You've got nothing, Wesker," Chris barked back, having retrieved his shotgun from his colleague and beginning to feverishly slot ammunition into the breach, "no more cards to play. You're going down, right here, right now."

"I'm not going to let you hurt my family, you bastard," Barry added, his revolver barking as he loosed two shots in his former superior's direction.

The blond placed himself behind one of the cryogenic columns just as his subordinate's bullets ruptured its surface. More of the putrid liquid poured onto the ground, carrying with it a withered, unidentifiable organ. Unperturbed by this development, he swung clear of the relative protection afforded by the tank and returned fire, forcing his adversary back into hiding. His partner replaced him in the space, blasting the corridor through which their gunplay was taking place with shot from his own weapon. Wesker ducked and water from a dozen new perforations began to spray in all directions.

And then, another stimulus drew their attention, calling a momentary halt to their battle.

An alert sounded, red warning lights flickering around the Tyrant's tank, as the terminal monitoring its vital signs announced its awakening. He glanced over at it, sparing it a moment of his attention, and saw its eyes snap open, opalescent orbs shimmering with a dark intelligence. It drew back its immense right hand, balled into a fist, and slammed it solidly into the impervious glass. The transparent surface distended beneath the blow, warping with the impact of its superior strength. It struck a second time, and then a third, the walls of its prison whitening with the stress, thick cracks extending from the point of impact.

With one last punch, it breached the tank, the shattered remnants of the frontage exploding outwards before it. Retracting its arm, it stepped down from the podium that remained of its confinement, its enormous foot crushing his fallen sunglasses beneath its heel as it did.

Its movements were slow, sluggish, the result of years of cryogenic slumber, but within minutes it would achieve full combat effectiveness. Even now, weakened as it was by cold and the atrophy of its joints, it was still supremely deadly and masterfully efficient. Turning its head to survey the area, it moved in the direction of the remaining S.T.A.R.S members and began to stride towards them.

They each muttered a curse and Wesker permitted himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Irrespective of whether they considered the man or the monster to be the lesser of two evils, the futility of their situation could not be denied. He was, of course, unsurprised when they continued to fight; psychological stability had been as important as physical robustness in his decision to recruit them, after all.

Silently, he stepped back into view between the rows of specimen tubes, levelling his handgun and awaiting the optimum target of opportunity. Whether his opponents stood their ground and fell to the Tyrant's claws, or broke and ran, only to meet their end by his hand, his objectives would be accomplished.

Chris unleashed a hail of suppressing fire at the approaching titan, sprays of buckshot rebounding ineffectually from its virus-treated flesh. His partner joined him, the .44 ammunition, identical to the bullet that had destroyed his own left arm so successfully, finding itself similarly inadequate. As they backed away from their enemy, the younger male glanced back over his shoulder, catching Wesker's eye with his own through the reinforced glass of the tanks between them. Cold, azure orbs, the colour of ice and narrowed with anguish, locked with warmer, more passionate, counterparts, which glared their fury into his ever-composed gaze.

And then a sharp pain broke his focus as something stabbed into the open wound on his shoulder, slicing through tendons and scraping bone. Behind him, Rebecca Chambers cried out in disbelief at her own actions, jabbing the scalpel from her medical satchel into the gory cavity in his arm. A grunt escaped his clenched teeth as he swung around, slamming his right elbow into her temple and knocking her to the ground. He reached for the implement embedded in his muscle with the same hand that was still clutching his Beretta, tearing it loose and casting it away with the three fingers clasping the grip.

No sooner had he done so, however, than he was tackled around the waist by Chris, who carried him bodily into the concrete wall, the jolt exploding along his spine. In his wake, Barry pursued, dragging the female rookie from the floor and away from the stalking Tyrant that continued to bear down on them.

The dark-haired subordinate struck him with a right hook that made his jaw rattle, followed by a left that had a similar effect, before grasping a handful of his jacket and ramming a knee stiffly into his stomach. With each impact, the air was jolted from his lungs, before the other man continued the punishment with his fist once again. After half a dozen solid punches, he swung his foot forward and connected hard with the blond's groin, the blow making him sag breathlessly.

"Chris, come on!" his partner yelled to him, as the monster neared.

"You _don't_ hurt my friends, you _got_ that?" he spat into Wesker's face, before doubling him over with yet another fist to the gut and darting away.

Ripples of pain unfolded through his abused midsection, as he forced himself away from the wall, falling to one knee for the briefest of moments, before rising again, straining to control his body's rebellion. A thin trail of blood began to trickle from his shredded lip, which he brushed away irritably on the reverse of his gloved right hand. His Beretta was no longer in his possession, presumably shaken from his grasp while he was attempting to mitigate the brutality he was being subjected to. However, in spite of any negligible comfort the weapon might have brought him, it would not have provided him with any protection for what was to come.

Looking upwards, he found himself standing before the Tyrant as it stood over him.

Though the fruits of Birkin's research would supposedly render him functionally immortal, he felt a flicker of panic, of fear. There was terror in the prospect of the unknown fate that awaited him in the darkness that even his ordinarily stoic mindset could not readily conquer. The fact remained, however, that his machinations had been set in motion many months previously. Though the S.T.A.R.S had not been eliminated, as had been his original intention, the fact remained that his designs had otherwise been brought to fruition.

There would be ample time to correct the oversights of that evening upon his reawakening.

Reserved to the last, he remained silent as the foremost talon pierced his belly, tearing open his stomach, the pair that were flanking it burrowing into the muscle and flesh of his abdomen. The rending agony was incomparable to any prior stimulus. Blood rose in his perforated bowels, up through his oesophagus and out of his mouth, spilling over his lips in thick, crimson strands. The Tyrant's arm rose, carrying him with it, until his eyes were level with its own eternally glaring orbs. His functioning hand grasped one of the spikes transfixing his torso, his legs treading air reflexively.

He was given the brief impression that the creature may have been scrutinising him; it would not have been beyond its power to do so given the augmented reasoning functions it had been imbued with.

And then it cast him aside, throwing out its colossal arm behind it and pitching him from its gore-slick claws. He felt his body tumble, weightless, through the air, before landing and skidding across the concrete, a bloody trail staining the ground in his wake. As his slack form slid to a stop, now lying at the opposite fringe of the laboratory, he slumped onto his back, a throaty groan emerging from his clogged windpipe.

His head dropped limply to the side, his eyes falling closed, and then he was consumed by the blackness of his "death".

-----x-----x-----x-----x-----x-----

Agony speared through him, hot and bracing. His body tensed, muscles snapping rigid along its length. Back arching, hands balling into fists, lips drawing back to reveal a snarl, he forced down the flash of intense anguish. Pale fingers, trembling with the exertion, moved up to trace the shredded hole in his uniform, overlaying his belly. They met the smooth, unblemished skin that sheathed his solid abdominal musculature and, slowly, the grimace of pain settled into a thin, bloodless line of neutrality.

As Birkin had theorised, he had regenerated fully. The fatal wound wrought to him by the Tyrant was now nothing more than a memory, the ruptured tissue of his arm healed until new, and the bruising from his subordinate's assault vanished. Though it remained slick with gore, his flesh was flawless, pale alabaster, as it had ever been. Flexing the fingers of his left hand, feeling his movements entirely unimpeded by any residual pain or muscular damage, he wiped away the crimson adhering to his features. Torment yet wracked his frame, but it was not beyond tolerance; indeed, for eternal life and unlimited power, as he had achieved, it was a small cost.

He stood, baring his eyes to the brilliant luminescence of the laboratory. There was no longer suffering in that brightness; rather, his perceptions were sharper, more defined, than they had ever been before. His hearing, too, seemed all the more acute. Even through the cacophonous wail of the klaxons heralding the Arklay facility's destruction, he could discern the chittering of the installation's living waste product as they scuttled through the ventilation system. More than that, he felt vital and focused, the fatigue of the evening's events having dissipated with his rejuvenation. He was not simply free of physical pain, but also free of all burden and discomfort.

The virus had surpassed his expectations, though its advantages required further experimentation in order to discover their true extent.

Unfortunately, his former subordinates appeared to have evacuated the chamber while he had been incapacitated; the Tyrant, also, was absent. Evidence of their battle scarred the walls, but neither the S.T.A.R.S nor the monster had perished within their confines. There was a possibility that it had pursued and eliminated them elsewhere, or perhaps the opposite were the case. He felt it best to operate under the assumption that neither party had been defeated, however. In either eventuality, the matter was one that would necessitate his attention at a more convenient juncture. Under the current circumstances, time was of the essence and a more pressing concern had emerged for his consideration.

He strode towards the terminal, angling the monitor so that he could scan its content. At the centre of the screen, a dialogue box had opened.

**"Umbrella Arklay Facility Internal Database #001 - #036 (project #T-002) transmitting to Unknown External Server #001; file upload complete."**

He permitted himself a momentary smirk with the news that the data transfer had been successful. However, his satisfaction dissipated when he moved to the keyboard and dismissed the report to find a second waiting immediately beneath it. Brow furrowing, he quickly read the contents of the new window.

**"Umbrella Arklay Facility Internal Database #001 - #036 (project #T-002) transmitting to Umbrella Central Mainframe #132; file upload complete."**

A growl escaped his lips unbidden, his jaw tightening suddenly with the knowledge that his designs for the Tyrant data had been disrupted. While it could still be useful to him, Umbrella would be able to match, if not surpass, his future organisation's creations; it was no longer quite as valuable as it had once been. Someone had dared to interfere with his intentions and, in doing so, had greatly exceeded their station. His fist rose and slammed into the desk beside the panel, denting the metalwork.

Setting aside the aggravation, he turned his focus to postponing the complex's detonation and allotting himself a more suitable timeframe in which to ensure his own escape. His digits moved fluidly across the keyboard, the motions effortless in spite of the fact that he had been clinically dead for several minutes. Unfortunately, he felt his features pinch all the more when his attempts to gain access were consistently denied. For the briefest of moments, he believed the workstation to be defective; however, a second dialogue box appeared that secured his attention.

**"Red Queen; Umbrella Central Mainframe Overseer; R.I. (Real Intelligence) Active Operational Construct,"** red lettering proclaimed, scrolling across the black background of the window; above, the organisation's emblem appeared, its white quadrants omitted.

As he watched, yet more text appeared upon the screen.

**"Wesker, Albert; your access privileges have been suspended pending an investigation of improper use of company resources. Incident One(1): 07/25/1998 0425 Unauthorised transfer of classified White Umbrella project data (#T-002) to unrecognised private server in contravention of 'X-Day' mission parameters. Please await the arrival of Umbrella Internal Security Division detachment despatched to your location. Have a nice day."**

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the report that he had been issued, detailing his supposed transgressions. He tapped a key with his index finger to dismiss it, only for yet another application to appear, further compounding his frustration. It displayed the countdown until the destruction of the facility, a countdown that was a mere few seconds from expiring.

"Though my former employers may believe themselves victorious," he began, his voice tense with restrained aggravation as his fist shattered the screen, "I assure you that this triumph will be fleeting."

Recognising that there were but scant moments remaining until the facility was utterly devastated, he withdrew his hand from the obliterated screen, analysing the injury he had sustained. The pain was negligible, in spite of the fact that the glass shards had sliced open his flesh to reveal the crimson-slick ivory of bone beneath. Even as he watched, the wound began to close, the flayed skin knitting together, repairing itself before his very eyes. Though the blood that had been shed remained, the damaged epidermal layer and shredded muscle tissue returned to its original seamless state.

With such unique and potent regenerative capabilities, he stood upon the threshold of a world without the ramifications of death or injury, a world that possessed infinite possibilities for his own advancement. Unfortunately, before that world would open to him, there was a necessary final sacrifice to be made.

He stood back from the terminal, closing his eyes, balling his hands into fists. The alert presaging the destruction of the installation came to a sudden end, tapering off into silence, moments before the chamber began to tremble, a deep groaning filling the air. And then, with the screech of tortured metal and the roar of crumbling stone, the laboratory collapsed around him.

-----x-----x-----x-----x-----x-----

It began as a low rumbling beneath the earth that shook the leaves from the forest's trees, felt for at least a kilometre in every direction.

As the tremors rose to their crescendo, an immense explosion blossomed outwards from the building's foundations, a fist of fire and force that punched apart the grand estate from beneath. The column of smoke and flames rose skywards, a burning streak across the horizon that could be seen even from Raccoon City, some several miles away. Debris from the Arklay mansion, smouldering concrete and charred wood, was spread for hundreds of metres. The detonation was such that the inferno raging in the crater where the magnificent house had once been extinguished itself in moments, leaving only a blackened hole to mark its passing.

It would take the local authorities several hours to congregate on the scene of the devastation, waylaid as they were, seeking permission from their true employers at the Umbrella Corporation.

The area was still devoid of human activity when a dark shape emerged from the rubble at the heart of the destruction. Its skin was little more than a burnt shell, a thick, black crust covering every inch of its body. As it pushed aside the wreckage that had barred its passage upwards to the morning sunlight, the movements of its muscles beneath its sheath of charring caused the outer layer to crack and bleed. Gore ran in rivulets along its torso and arms as it rose from the ashes and walked, back straightened and head lifted, across the tattered landscape, pausing only once it had reached the flattened grass.

Albert Wesker shuddered in the crisp air, his flesh sloughing from his body and drifting away on the breeze as little more than a cloud of cinders. Raw muscle tissue, slick with blood, continued to knit together across his entire form, replacing that which had been lost in the blaze. As he stood, head bowed in silent concentration, mind consumed by the agony that wracked his entire frame, fresh skin began to flow across his nude form. It poured over the bare sinew of his features, renewing his ageless countenance, and returned the solid definition to his torso and limbs. The follicles atop his cranium opened, sprouting fibres the colour of sand that stood disarrayed from his scalp.

His eyelids, closed until that moment, snapped open, swollen bubbles of blood bursting with the sudden movement and trailing downwards over his cheeks. Blank, white orbs glared out from sockets that had been violated in the blast. In a moment, a single bead of amber colour appeared at the centre of each smooth, unblemished globe, seeping outwards into the shape of a retina, like ink spilled into water. Seconds later, a droplet of scarlet burst into bloom, ringed by the first. At the heart of the unnatural hues, the eyes split, slits of black widening and then narrowing as they focused upon the world around them.

Slowly, he opened his mouth, a torrent of dark ichor spilling forth from his lips, drooling over his chin and along his neck, staining his chest and the musculature of his abdomen. A strangled groan escaped his throat, effluent bubbling in his windpipe, the pain driving him to react. His entire body snapped rigid a loud snarl escaping from between his clenched jaws, a primal, animal roar that echoed throughout the forest.

And then, with that, he opened his hands, moving them up to smooth his unkempt hair with a single, easy motion. Though the pearl-white pegs of his teeth remained pressed tightly together, his crimson-painted lips turned upwards at their corners, a thin, malevolent smile.

Buried beneath the ruins of Arklay, dozens of metres beneath the earth, he had felt the power of the virus in his body. Though he had been dead for minutes, perhaps even hours, it had returned him to life. Though his form had been destroyed, it had regenerated him. Though he had suffered, and suffered still, from the pain of his ordeal, that agony lessened with every passing moment. It had granted him the strength to rise from his unmarked grave, through the fire, to the surface, lifting stone and metal that would have been beyond his human abilities, even at his physical prime.

He turned his head, surveying his surroundings with the new sight it had bestowed upon him. There was much to do, many matters that required his attention, primarily relating to the future that now spread out before him. Even before he had embarked the previous evening, it had never been his intention to return to Raccoon City; a small cabin, catering to his requirements, awaited him deeper in the forest. From there, he would consolidate his assets and devise the next stage in his machinations.

Primary among his considerations, he resolved, would be the acquisition of new clothing.

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End file.
